“Sherlock! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Molly bustled over as soon as she noticed the tall consulting detective leaving his Belstaff on a hook near the door. Everyone else was dancing near the lights and stage.
“And yet here I am,” Sherlock said, coming to a stop in front of her, a step-down. He scanned the people briefly. Parties weren’t his thing, but Mrs Hudson had mentioned it’d be a good place to talk to Molly after her two-week trip. And Sherlock was running out of body parts to experiment on. He didn’t have to stay long.
Molly blushed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s good to see you. Holidays are nice and all, but I… I missed you.”
“To be expected, you left all of your friends here in London. All two or three of them.”
Molly gave him a look. “I have more than three friends, thank you very much, but you’re right. You were here in London”
“I know,” Sherlock said. I missed you too. “I…noticed your absence.” He shifted towards her, slowly like he didn’t know what to do.
“Why are you leaning forward?” Molly asked, all too quickly, very unsure about why he was so close.
“Well I was going to kiss you, on the lips this time, but your question spoiled the mood.”
Molly’s eyes grew wide and a smile lit up her face. Instead of stammering as she might have, she just slipped her hand behind his neck and kissed him first.
karin took november on an arcade/movie date because they hadn’t really had time to themselves since before christmas, and they had so much fun in the arcade (and the alley) that they were exhausted by the time they actually made it to the movies
When posed with the question, “What do you dislike most about yourself?” I paused for a moment, just long enough to organize my thoughts, and wrote down the words, “Nothing. I love myself.” This question is one that seems to come up often, in something as cliche as personality quizzes and in something as casual as conversations with new friends. It’s supposed to be something easy to answer. I’m supposed to hand over a piece of myself to someone else with a note that says, “This is the worst part of me.” I’m supposed to brace myself for their agreements when they say, “I understand, maybe you could work on that,” or let my guard down, let them walk right in, when they say, “No, I love that part about you!” I’m supposed to carefully package my insecurities and seal them with modesty, delivering them like presents on Christmas morning. I’m supposed to give a simple answer, to which they will give a simple response, and we will all move on.
But I don’t.
The response is always the same. A lighthearted chuckle, a smile that doesn’t quite reach their eyes, a look that says, “That’s cute,” or “You’re kidding, right?” A high-five, a pat on the back, a fist bump. And then, “No, but seriously.”
How do I say, in the most serious way, that I am serious?
I do not want to stand in front of a mirror and pick myself apart to appease others. I will not go looking in the lost and found, searching for pieces of myself that I misplaced during math class. There’s a deeply rooted assumption that every teenage girl eagerly waits in line, ready to pull out a long list of problems with herself at the snap of a finger. My list has been in the landfill for awhile now, I try to explain, but no one ever believes me when I assure them that I crumpled it up and threw it into the trashcan years ago. Every compliment from someone else is supposed to be a chance for me to jump through hoops for more, to beg for praise, or to deny their kind words.
And it seems that everytime I say I love myself, I hear an anthem playing in the background with demeaning lyrics disguised as constructive criticism. Maybe this is why I do not say the pledge of allegiance.
I will romanticize myself, like I’m the protagonist every character is falling in love with, or the the muse of a poet’s greatest piece. I will describe my own smile as sunshine on a cloudy day, brighter than the brightest star. I will explain my love for words, for reading them and writing them, with that prize-winning smile on my face and a list of all thirty-three books I’ve read so far this year. I will wear my rainbow bracelets and pride socks and imagine that I am Sappho reincarnated. I will belt out the wrong words to my favorite songs and laugh when I am corrected. I will not shy away from all the amazing truths about myself.
It is always met with resistance. Words not necessarily meant out of malice are tossed at me like darts at a target, with incredible precision. Selfish, narcissistic, conceited, full of yourself, arrogant, overconfident. I love to pose for pictures, to smile in my own phone’s camera, to say, “Wow, I look nice today.” I’ll try on mountains of clothes until I find what’s just right, but the elevator music with tales of modesty as its chorus is a little too much for the background. When did loving my body become the same as disrespecting it?
There is nothing I dislike most about myself. I could always amend my original answer to be the way my cheeks are a little round, or the way I’ve always been subpar at science classes, or the way my hair looks when it rains. But those would be lies, and I love how I am honest with myself.
To those who accuse me of narcissism when I pause in front of a mirror: What is wrong with being in love with your own reflection? Shouldn’t you be happy to see yourself?